


your hands, calloused

by gremlit



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Touch-Starved, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29896755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlit/pseuds/gremlit
Summary: It’s not unusual that they find the last room in the inn, or the only room they can afford, only has one bed. Jaskier used to sleep on the floor, before his tossing and turning irritated Geralt so much that he’d make room for him. Now, he is used to sharing. Geralt lies down, making himself comfortable. Jaskier follows suit. The bed is large enough for both of them, but he expects to wake in the morning with Jaskier wrapped around him, attracted to the heat of another body.But when he wakes the next day, Jaskier is faced away from him, perched on the edge of the bed, clutching a pillow to his chest. It’s strange, but not enough for Geralt to take note. But it’s not long until he does.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 239





	your hands, calloused

Jaskier is fond of touch. 

A barmaid will serve him a drink and his fingers will brush over hers as he takes it. Upon meeting someone, he’ll shake their hand with both of his. When someone makes him laugh, he’ll pat them on the back heartily, like he’s never heard anything else so funny in his life. He’s human, but he uses his touch like he has charm magicks in his fingers.

He’s not sure when it happened, but Jaskier’s started doing it to him. The intimidating aura that Geralt focuses on exuding at all times seems to have lost its effect on Jaskier. He’ll grip his shoulder as they’re approached by some horrific stryga or griffin or something similar, whether in fear or in encouragement, Geralt’s not sure. The rare times that Jaskier’s pace has slowed so increasingly that he hoists him up on Roach, he’ll grip Geralt’s waist without hesitation. More than once his head will droop in exhaustion, resting on Geralt’s back. At a crowded tavern, their legs will press against each other while they eat. And Geralt has let him.

At the beginning of their odd companionship, he’d glare at Jaskier when he tried one of his friendly pats on the back until he’d retract his hand with a nervous laugh, but he’s given up attempting to alienate the bard. He’s stuck around after alghouls have attacked in the night and a kikimora pursued them through a dense forest and drowners have tried to drown them in their swamp; clearly nothing will scare some sense into this bard. 

Maybe there is some magic in him, because with each time Jaskier touches him like he’s a friend instead of a monster, he feels the bricks in his walls getting knocked down. Geralt’s own hands are calloused and coarse with the violence he wields; his hands have been hardened for one thing, and it is to kill. Even when he fucks, it is with a fervent hurriedness in a need to come more than to connect. He never knows when he’ll be faced by the next threat and he can’t linger. Can’t waste his time on sweet kisses or embraces, dressing as soon as he’s done. 

Jaskier trusts with his touch, as easily as breathing, and Geralt - doesn’t _envy_ him, mind you - can see he is lucky. That he lives only to please, with his song or his cock, and never needs to rely on his sword to live. Though Geralt has thought he could do with some basic lessons in defending himself with all the things they face. Once or twice he’s seen him with a girl on his lap, his hand on her leg, and Geralt thinks how easily she might rob him and leave him bleeding out in an alleyway somewhere. But then, he acquaints himself with a Witcher, who anyone in their right mind would hope to never cross in their life. So his judgement must be skewed at best. 

They are in Temeria for a noble’s wedding feast. The bride is a fan, apparently, and has hired Jaskier to play.

With promise of half his pay, free ale and a soft bed for the night, Jaskier has strung Geralt along. He’s not entirely thrilled, with how the last party went, but he’s also tired of sleeping on the hard ground or in the pest-ridden beds of inns. He wears the same soft doublet he wore at Pavetta’s betrothal feast and Jaskier has washed his tunic three times, demanding it must be white, because “It won’t do to wear anything with blood stains. Everyone will be horrified,” Jaskier grumbled, though Geralt thinks that one look at his yellow eyes and everyone will be horrified regardless. Jaskier, at his side, is in a sapphire doublet and trousers and already has a drunken sort of smile on his face. A floral perfume is wafting from him, all roses and chamomile; sweet fragrances to appeal to the noblewomen. 

“It’s been a while since we attended a party, Geralt. Think we ought to get appropriately cut, don’t you think?” Jaskier says, elbowing him in the side, but he only grunts in reply, scanning the crowd for anyone - anything - that might be looking to kill him later. 

Jaskier pays no attention to Geralt’s non-response, “Right, I’m off. See you after my set. Try not to be too bewitched by my singing,” he smirks, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“No chance of that,” Geralt replies. Jaskier frowns before wandering off to find his accompanying band. 

Meanwhile, Geralt takes a seat on the end of the tables. Arranged in a ‘U’ shape, the bride and bridegroom are seated on the middle table, so that all eyes are directed toward them. Servers have already brought out an excessive amount of food: roast boar blazed in honey and boiled vegetables and bushels of fruit. Barrels of ale sit in the corner of which Geralt has already helped himself. It would be a waste not to partake in some of the meal that has him salivating, so he does. 

As he’s chewed the last morsel of meat from the bone, Jaskier begins to play. With the quartet of musicians accompanying him, it’s far from awful. It could even be called pleasant; Jaskier’s usual improvising and fumbled chords gone. The change of venue seems to have him playing his best. Geralt rises to refill his tankard. The musicians are centre stage, Jaskier’s playing directed at the newlyweds. But by the time Geralt returns to his seat, Jaskier is making his usual rounds: the enthusiastic prance around the room to make everyone feel, for a moment, he’s playing only for them. As he passes Geralt, he winks, his mouth pulled in a wide grin that gives his notes an odd sound. Geralt furrows his eyebrows, but the bard’s already moved on. 

With the band, he plays all the songs Geralt’s familiar with, coaxing the attendees to sing and clap along in time. Geralt’s starting to think that he’ll only play to drunks, much more susceptible to joining in the revelry.

The jubilant songs pass, though, and the band walk away, setting their instruments down. The crowd begins to quieten as they notice the change. Left to play alone, Jaskier sings an unfamiliar ballad. The crowd is leaning over the tables to hear. Geralt finds he, too, is sitting forward. His hearing may be better than that of a human, but the murmuring of the crowd and the ale in his belly has him straining to hear the words. It’s a love song, of course, of hearts true and sure, of lovers that never stray from each other’s sides for long, drawn to one another by a force unknown to them. Jaskier sings before the bride and bridegroom, so Geralt can’t see his face, but he imagines it soft and open, probably thinking of his own past lovers to twine into the song’s emotion. When he finishes, there is a long second of silence before the crowd applauds, and Jaskier takes a low bow, his free arm outstretched. As dramatic as ever. The newly married pair kiss, and rise from their seats. The band begins to play again, jaunty music to dance to; couples rise from their seats and take to the floor. Jaskier walks over to greet his employers, kissing the bride on both cheeks and warmly embracing the bridegroom. Geralt takes a long sip from his tankard.

“Hello, handsome. You’ve been sitting here alone for far too long,” Says a voice, and Geralt turns to find a woman, her blonde hair tied into braids that wrap around her head, looking at him. Her cheek is resting on her hand, the fingers of her other just short of touching his forearm. 

She makes a little ‘O’ with her mouth as he turns, “You’re a Witcher.” 

“Yes,” Geralt replies. 

“You know,” She says, leaning in, her breath on his ear, “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to bed a Witcher.” Her hand creeps around his arm. She’s small, and it would be easy for Geralt to shake her off, but it wouldn’t look good for him to use his Witcher strength on a woman. 

“I’m not interested.” The words tumble out of his mouth, and he realises he means it. He’s tired of sex with strangers he’ll never see again. 

The woman isn’t discouraged by this, and she slides closer. Her breasts press against his arm and her lips are practically _on_ his ear, tickling him like the leaves of a bush. The liquor is heavy on her breath, but there is something else emanating from her that doesn’t have the manufactured quality of perfume. It might be vanilla.

“Come now, you don’t mean that. You won’t regret a night with me. The things I could do with you…” 

Geralt rolls his eyes, and just as he’s about to put a hand on her shoulder and push her away - she turns, “Oh, you’re the bard. You were excellent,” The woman says, “Won’t you play one more song? A love song, of course,” She says, fluttering her eyelashes at him,

He turns, and Jaskier’s standing behind them, his hands curled into fists and face flushed, no doubt from his lengthy performance.

“Um -” 

“We’re leaving,” Geralt grunts, getting to his feet, disentangling himself from the woman’s grasp and downing the rest of his ale before slamming it back on the table. 

“Oh. Right,” Jaskier mutters, trailing after him. 

As they’re making their way to their room upstairs, Jaskier clears his throat.

“Did I - Geralt, I - I didn’t interrupt you in the middle of trying to bed that woman, did I? Can’t say I’ve ever seen your attempts at flirting, but it did seem to be going well.” 

“I have no desire to be pawed at like an animal in a cage.”

Jaskier’s pace falters for a second before quickening again to keep in time with Geralt’s stride. 

“We didn’t have to leave, you know. I didn’t even get that free meal I was promised. The one I saw _you_ devouring before I even started singing! Guess a Witcher’s appetite is far bigger than his vocabulary.” Jaskier rambles, the nerves apparent in his hurried words. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, approaching the door to their room.

“What?” 

“The key.” 

“Right.” Jaskier rummages through his pockets before producing the key and sliding it into the lock. He stands still in the doorway for a second. “Oh. Well.” 

Walking in after Jaskier, Geralt sees there’s only one bed. 

“I must have forgotten to get an upgrade,” Jaskier says, scratching his head. Geralt removes his doublet and boots. It’s not unusual that they find the last room in the inn, or the only room they can afford, only has one bed. Jaskier used to sleep on the floor, before his tossing and turning irritated Geralt so much that he’d make room for him. Now, he is used to sharing. Geralt lies down, making himself comfortable. Jaskier follows suit. The bed is large enough for both of them, but he expects to wake in the morning with Jaskier wrapped around him, attracted to the heat of another body. 

But when he wakes the next day, Jaskier is faced away from him, perched on the edge of the bed, clutching a pillow to his chest. It’s strange, but not enough for Geralt to take note. But it’s not long until he does. Jaskier refrains from touching him entirely after that night, as much as possible. 

They set out on the road again, and they cross a wraith that Geralt takes down quickly. Afterwards, he sees Jaskier reach out to pat him on the shoulder but freezes and drops his hand. 

Having placed it so close to their campfire, his bedroll nearly catches one particularly cold night. The next time he lets him ride with him on Roach, he grips the saddle instead of Geralt and ends up slipping off into the mud. He hardly has the humour to laugh at Jaskier, his clothes splattered. He might offer a hand to help him up, if he didn’t know it’d be refused. 

Geralt’s not exactly going to complain, but it does make his brow crease in confusion when Jaskier’s not looking. He still puts on a show in the taverns, kissing the hands of maidens and crossing elbows with strangers to spill ale down his chin and laugh. And Geralt will stand in the corner as if he has his own invisible shield that no one can penetrate. Jaskier’s eyes will glance over to him, as if assuring himself he’s still there, but it’s never for long. Like he’s afraid to touch him even with his gaze. 

* * *

Geralt is searching for a cockatrice’s nest in the woods, Jaskier trailing a few feet behind. Just as he’s found a small cave with the telltale signs: feathers and bones of small animals strewn about, when the squawk of the creature announces its return home. He hadn’t planned on fighting it now, only discovering its location, so Geralt grips Jaskier’s wrist and pulls them both into a crevice at the back of the cave. They’re pressed flush chest-to-chest, Geralt leaning to look out the gap to watch the cockatrice’s movement. Jaskier’s head is turned the other way, chin raised slightly. The space is cramped and hot, and Geralt can see Jaskier’s face turning red in the dim light. So close in the gap, Jaskier’s scent fills his nostrils: honeymead and cinnamon. It’s so strong, it fills him with the urge to lean in and run his nose along Jaskier’s neck and breathe him in. 

After about twenty minutes, the cockatrice has laid down and closed its eyes, breathing evenly. Geralt emerges from their hiding spot and stabs it clean through its torso. It shrieks and dies quickly. He calls to Jaskier that it’s safe to come out, and he all but sprints out of the crevice and out of the cave. When Geralt is finished with the beast’s corpse, Jaskier is still panting and mutters something about claustrophobia. 

It gets weird. Jaskier’s in and out of other people’s beds like a travelling whore. Geralt always has a room to himself, and on the nights when they’re too far from an inn, Jaskier insists they keep going until they find one. One night they come across an apothecarist, and she offers her stable as a bed for the night. In the early morning, Geralt wakes to hear a woman shouting, and a door being slammed. He goes to look and finds Jaskier leaning against the door of the house.

“Jaskier. What are you doing?” Geralt calls.

Jaskier just shakes his head, returning to sit in the hay. 

“Aren’t you tired of sleeping with every woman you meet?” 

He buries his face in his hands, groaning.

“Can’t be hygienic,” Geralt says, but Jaskier only lies down and turns his back to him. 

Perhaps Jaskier has finally realised what he is, a hideous Witcher, not worth getting close to, much less sleep near and abandon all defenses. But he still follows him around, claiming the need for new song material. But he’s also miserable. He’s always irritable with the lack of sleep and snapping at Geralt when he grunts in response to one of his quips. If he’s honest, Geralt is also tired. Tired of Jaskier’s odd behaviour and the way he avoids him. Weren’t they meant to be friends? And now he treats him the same as everyone else, like the moment someone throws up bile all over the floor and you shuffle your feet out of the way before they get hit.

Geralt takes on a job regarding some supposedly haunted castle ruins and some missing villagers. Jaskier has insisted on tagging along, hoping for a ghost story that will make for a tragic love ballad. From what he’s heard from witnesses, it’s likely to be nothing more than some ghouls making a nesting ground out of the abandoned building.

Jaskier strums on his lute as they explore the rooms, and Geralt doesn’t bother telling him to stop. The ruins are cavernous and dank, like a crypt, and he imagines the music is soothing in the dark. 

“Why do these beasts of yours always live in the creepiest places? Can’t one of them live in a flower shop? At least that would smell less like death.”

“It’s that or onions,” Geralt mutters, and Jaskier laughs. Properly laughs, for the first time in a while. 

They come to the stairs of what could have once been a wine cellar. Water submerges the last few steps and the walls are damp. Intermittent drops splash into the pool. Geralt watches the waters shift, and he searches his pockets for a potion of Cat, the darkness limiting his eyesight. 

“What’s that?” Jaskier says, and takes a step down. A bottle is floating on the surface of the dirty waters that have accumulated, a remainder of the cellar’s stores. 

“Wait -” Geralt calls, but too late. One foot submerged, Jaskier’s arm is outstretched, reaching for the bottle, when the bony, ash-grey hand of a ghoul grips his wrist - and drags him underwater. 

Geralt swallows Cat and plunges after them. The water is deeper than he expected, and with his clear sight he sees the floor has been pulled apart. The ghoul carries Jaskier through the hole in the ground. Geralt swims after them, muscles stretching as he swims hard and fast. He pulls out his crossbow and fires a bolt at the ghoul. Recoiling, it releases its grip on Jaskier and he jerks away from it. As Geralt reaches for him, more ghouls rise from the depths. There are far too many for him to fight, their claws unfurled and grabbing at them. Jaskier’s human lungs are already failing him, bubbles escaping his mouth as he gasps. Abandoning his crossbow, Geralt pulls Jaskier to him and casts Aard. The ghouls are repelled away, and Geralt takes the chance to swim - back through the gaping hole and to the stairs of the cellar. 

They run through the halls and out of the ruins. Geralt is vaguely aware that Jaskier is limping, but he can’t let him slow down, even as they both carry the extra weight of water that sticks to them. The shrieks of the ghouls brush against them as they run, their limbs thumping hard against the floor in their pursuit. Outside, Roach is snorting and shifting on her hooves, sensing the danger. Unsheathing his sword, Geralt slices through the rope that ties her to a tree and hoists Jaskier onto her. Mounting Roach, he wraps a protective arm around Jaskier’s waist as he grips the reins with his free hand. 

“Go, Roach,” Geralt barks, and he makes her run until her flanks are heaving with effort, until he is satisfied they are safe. He dismounts, and helps Jaskier to the ground, who hisses as he lands. 

“You’re injured,” Geralt says, kneeling to inspect Jaskier’s ripped trouser leg. A thin stripe of blood is running down his ankle. One of the ghouls must have attacked in the water. He reaches to move the cloth aside, to inspect the damage, but Jaskier steps away.

“It’s nothing,” Jaskier says, but he pulls a roll of bandage out of Geralt’s pack. 

Geralt builds a fire as Jaskier tends to his wound. They’re both still drenched, but Jaskier is trembling with the chill. Geralt has discarded his armour for a fur from his pack. His hair is dripping onto his skin, but it bothers him less than the sight of Jaskier stretching his shaking hands, palms out, toward the fire. 

“Come here,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s head whips up in his direction, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“What?”

“You’ll catch your death like that,” He murmurs, glad the fire is casting his face in shadows, “Or do I repulse you so much?” 

“What?” Jaskier repeats, “I - Oh, Melitele’s tits.” Jaskier shuffles to his feet and hobbles over, and Geralt pulls him into the fur. Jaskier’s arms slip around him, hands pressed against his back. The feeling of a body against his warms him in a way the fire cannot. The rapid beat of Jaskier’s heart echoes in Geralt’s ears. His shivers lessen. Geralt breathes through his nose, but he can only smell wet soil, like a freshly dug grave that has just been rained on. He pulls the fur tight around them, that no warmth might escape. 

“I thought you knew. Thought - perhaps I was no better than some barwench clinging on your arm,” Jaskier mumbles into his chest, his breath hot on his skin.

Geralt has no idea what he means. But there is that scent - honeymead and cinnamon - drifting into his nostrils, filling his head with thoughts of warm taverns, a well-cooked meal and a hot bath. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, his lips against his neck, fingers gripping his tunic. The scent grows stronger, making him dizzy with it, like he might swallow and feel the mead sliding down his throat. He releases the fur to grip Jaskier’s shoulders, and pull him away from his chest. His pupils are blown wide, mouth slightly parted.

_Oh_ , Geralt thinks, as Jaskier begins to apologise, mistaking the action for rejection. 

Geralt kisses him, shutting him up. It shocks Jaskier into stillness for a moment, before he opens his trembling mouth and moves his tongue against Geralt’s. Jaskier’s fingers are grasping at his tunic, pulling himself closer. He’s panting when he pulls back, his breath hot and chest heaving. The sight alone is enough to make Geralt want to push him onto the ground and fuck him in the dirt, but they’re both still wet and Jaskier is injured. 

“I wish you’d done that sooner,” Jaskier breathes, kissing the corner of Geralt’s mouth, his jaw, and his neck. 

“What a fool,” Geralt agrees, dragging a hand through Jaskier’s hair to pull his head back and look at his face. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth, and his eyes don’t leave Geralt’s, though they flicker. He realises Geralt is waiting for him to talk. 

He swallows, “You used to get this look on your face when I - when anyone touched you. It was sort of a game. I’d think, ‘How can I make Geralt look at me today?’ Ha!” He pauses, “I was the fool.” Jaskier’s gaze drops, ashamed, and his voice is so quiet. 

“You wanted me to touch you,” Geralt says. 

“Yes.” 

“So you were punishing yourself?” He loosens his grip, caressing the wet ends of Jaskier’s hair.

“You could call it that.” 

Geralt presses his mouth to his again, and Jaskier is soft and pliant below him. He tastes like mead.

“Both fools,” He murmurs. 

The next tavern they are at is barren, on the edge of the woods, the few occupants as road-weary as they are. Jaskier is tuning his lute, though Geralt doubts his audience will be generous.

“How many rooms, sir? We’ve plenty to spare tonight,” The barman says, looking over the meagre crowd.

Geralt is distracted by the curl of Jaskier’s mouth as he starts to play. 

“Just one.”

**Author's Note:**

> i like the idea of geralt being able to smell lust but everyone has a different scent.


End file.
